*** The Arrival ***
"Click, clock. Click, clock," the sharp sound of a pair of high-heeled shoes crossing our living room floor caught my attention. As I was hurriedly changing to go out, I hadn't noticed what was going on at the front door, and I guessed that Mother had let our guest in just before she departed for her business trip.
Mother and I had had a real blow-out. Having just turned 18, I didn't see the need to have someone stay with me just because both my parents were away. It was as if I still had to have a ... a ... well, there was no way of getting around it ... a babysitter. I shuddered at the name.
I offered to stay at my brother's, but we both knew that, with my exams coming up, the constant partying over there made that a disastrous idea. I tried to reason with her up to and, unfortunately, past her limit of tolerance, and then ... "Enough!!" she had bellowed. "Timothy Walker! You are staying here this week! I want to know that the house is in good hands, and my friend Janet has been good enough to do me this favour. All I'm asking from you is to not give her a hard time." Mother's face had gotten quite red, and I could see veins.
"You will do as Janet tells you, and if she informs me when I return that you have been a pain in the ass, then you will have to deal with me! ... Do you understand?"
"Yes," I had replied timidly. It was futile to argue at that point. My mother was strict and abusive, and I knew my limits.
"Do you?!?" she had seethed. "Do you? Because if I hear ..." Fortunately, the doorbell had saved me. She stopped yelling, but before she went to answer it, her eyes had drilled into me and her chest had puffed in and out visibly. I got that queasy, helpless feeling that always accompanied her bouts of discipline. It had churned my gut and tingled my balls.
"Click, clock. Click, clock," the pace of the shoes seemed firm and unhurried. Janet? Janet? I didn't know any of my mother's friends named Janet, but then, I didn't keep track of all her friends. My mother was pretty active with her business, at her church and in her charity work. Most of her friends were in their 50s and varied in looks from frumpy to dumpy, although there were a couple of them who gave me something to think about when I laid in bed at night. Not that I should be choosy. As a glasses-wearing, brainy virgin in a jock-dominated school, I could have definitely benefitted from the seduction of a mature friend of the family.
I threw my worn shirt across the room towards my clothes hamper and searched my closet for something to wear – something non-geekish for my visit with Rebecca tonight. Finding something appropriate was going to be a problem; I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of her.
Rebecca was not my girlfriend – in fact, I had no real girlfriend. There were a few girls who deigned to sit with me in a few of my classes, like Claire and Stephanie, because they knew I could help them get high marks. But unlike Claire and Stephanie, who were hot, Rebecca was at my level of nerdishness and so was, at least, a prospect.
"Click, clock. Click, clock," the steps – I presumed they were Janet's – entered the hallway just outside my door, and I suddenly realized, standing there in just my boxers, that I was indisposed. I looked frantically around the room for my bathrobe and finally noticed it hanging on my door. As I crossed the room to get it, the door opened, swinging the robe away from my grasp and forcing me to jump back and cover myself with my hands.
I looked at the face of my intruder. It was ... It was ... It was Miss Ridge, my History teacher from lower school! ... My gawd, Miss Rigid! ... When I was in the fifth grade, we called her Miss Rigid because of how strict she was, but by eighth grade, we were calling her that because of how she made the boys feel in class. She had a firm, shapely body with a small waist, long legs and a tight, round butt. But her petiteness was offset by large breasts that wobbled sufficiently for one to conclude that they were definitely natural. Her "no nonsense" approach to dealing with students was supported by her thin, angular face, short-cut hair and serious demeanour. As well, her thin glasses always seemed to give the impression that she was glaring at you narrowly.
"Well, well, well ... Mis-ter Walk-er," she recollected me in a "look at who we have here" tone.
Janet Ridge still looked amazing. She must have been in her mid-50s now, but you wouldn't know it to look at her. She was wearing a professional but close-fitting black suit that hinted at an ample, shapely figure. The jacket's neckline was open enough to reveal the curvy cleavage of her shirtless breasts, and the knee-length skirt hugged her shapely, black-stockinged legs over her high-heeled, black shoes. With her short-coiffed hair and thin, gold-rimmed glasses, she looked, on the whole, coolly authoritative.
She cocked an arm and rested it on her hip, "Don't you think it was impolite of you to not welcome me at the front door?"
Was she joking or serious? She was looking at me completely dispassionately. Drat! She had just arrived, and we were already off on the wrong foot. Keeping my hands across my front, I squirmed at the discomfort of the situation. I felt like I was back in grade school again. "No ... I ... No, it's just that I was changing to go out, and I was just ... ah ... getting ready to go out." Boy, that sounded stupid.
Miss Ridge walked slowly over to my shirt on the floor. Pinching its collar between a finger and thumb, she pulled it up off the ground and held it over my clothes hamper. "I see," she said with a slight amount of disgust in her voice and let the shirt drop into the plastic basket. "Mr. Walker," her voice was quiet, but it had a cool edge to it, "Would you please proceed to the living room? I would like to speak with you."
"Yes. Of course ... let me just ..." I stammered as I reached again for my robe.
"Mr. Walker!" she halted me and then strutted slowly over to my side. "I asked you to proceed to the living room. Please do so."
I don't think she realized that I just wanted to throw on my robe, but when I turned to explain myself, I saw a look of controlled irritation. On my mother's face, that look meant, "Don't screw around." My balls began to tingle again; I decided to move obediently into the living room. Crossing over to the couch, I sat down and pulled a pillow onto my lap.
"Click, clock. Click, clock," Miss Ridge followed me into the room with a slow, measured pace. She positioned herself by a winged-back chair. Hooking her hands on her hips, she exhaled in exasperation. "Mr. Walker, do you consider it polite to remain seated when a woman enters the room?"
I wasn't trying to piss her off ... I really wasn't. I jumped up immediately, holding the pillow in front of me. "No ... Sorry," I apologized.
"Would you leave that silly pillow on the sofa and come over here please?" she insisted.
I dropped the pillow back on my seat and hustled over to her side. I respectfully covered myself with my hands again, but when she saw my attempt at modesty, she grabbed my elbows and moved my arms to my sides. "Would you please stop that?! Do you have something down there that you are ashamed of?" she snipped.
"No, it's just that I ..."
"Well, I seem to be having trouble getting your attention, and your fidgetting is not helping. Would you please just focus on our discussion?" Her face moved in front of mine. It was very close; I could feel the heat from her breath. Her eyes looked cold and intense. I felt very uncomfortable being scrutinized in the middle of my living room with just a pair of thin cotton boxers on. It was like I was in trouble with my mother, and the feeling made my stomach flutter and my balls tighten nervously.
Miss Ridge walked around the chair and sat down, crossing her legs. It was quiet for a while, but I felt restrained from talking or moving. She just looked at me impassively and waited. Eventually, she broke the silence, "Timothy, now that I seem to finally have your attention, did I understand you to say that you were intending to leave the house tonight?"
